


Fever Dream

by menel



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Courtship, Dreams, Dreams to Reality, Enemies to Friends, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Misunderstandings, Pining, Team Up, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27418897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: When Matt Murdock begins appearing in Frank Castle's dreams, Frank is understandably disturbed. Eventually, he comes to terms with this development and its implications, even as he decides not to act on his discovery. Unfortunately, fate (or Frank's unconscious) has other plans.Written for the October 2020 Fratt Week Amnesty Day.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69
Collections: Fratt Week





	Fever Dream

**Author's Note:**

> It's amazing what a little guilt and good conversation can do. Thanks to titC, I began writing this fic on Amnesty Day and am _just_ squeezing it in for the October 2020 Fratt Week because our awesome mod is so kind. Part Two to follow!

This is his favorite dream. He’s in a house (but not his old house). He’s lying down in bed. Naked. (But not his old bed.) Sunlight streams through the windows. He’s just woken up. He feels pleasantly warm, still drowsy. It’s the weekend. There’s no reason to get up. Someone enters the bedroom. This person is naked too, carrying with him a steaming mug of black coffee. Frank knows that the coffee is for him. He sits up as Matt gets back into bed, smoothly sliding under the covers and passing Frank the mug. Frank takes a drink. Caffeine shoots through him, lighting up his nerve endings. The world is suddenly clear and sharp. He drops a kiss on Matt’s cheek before the other man slides down into the bed, lying on his side and facing Frank. Matt shuts his eyes, even if the action holds no real meaning for him. He reaches out, places a hand on Frank’s thigh. They don’t speak. It’s a quiet Sunday morning. Frank likes this dream best.

* * *

The first time Frank dreamed about Murdock, he’d woken up in a cold sweat. It had been confusing and unsettling. It made no sense to dream about Matthew Murdock, a man he barely knew, and to place him in a domestic setting when his experiences with Murdock were about blood and violence and a horned red suit. When the dream had started (the bedroom, the sunlight, the lazy Sunday morning), Frank had felt the familiar comforts of home. He’d thought of his children playing inside or outdoors; he’d expected Maria to enter the room with the mug of coffee. When Frank had heard the footsteps, his eyes had been shut. This person had carried with them the scent of freshly brewed coffee. He’d felt the bed dip as the person joined him. The scent of coffee had grown stronger as the mug had been placed in front of him. Frank had opened his eyes, expecting Maria’s smiling face to greet him. He’d been greeted with Matthew Murdock instead. 

Frank had woken up in a cold sweat. 

The dream may have been confusing and unsettling, but Frank didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. The unconscious was a fucked up place, his even more than most. Frank didn’t allow himself to dwell on it until it happened again . . . and again . . . and again. 

It was irritating. 

Then, he started having other dreams.

The second dream became his second favorite. This one was at a park. Another weekend. Or maybe after work? After work was more likely given the suit that Murdock was wearing. (Frank vacillated between calling him ‘Matt’ or ‘Murdock.’ Matt felt too familiar, Murdock too impersonal. He was ‘Red’ the rest of the time. When they ran into each other on the streets, he was always ‘Red.’) In the dream, there was a dog. Frank thought it was his dog, but he couldn’t be sure. The dog was fond of Matt, _very_ fond of him, though he obviously wasn’t a seeing-eye dog.

Nothing much happened in that dream. It was just an afternoon in the park. They strolled around. Played fetch with the dog. Had some ice cream. Strolled around some more. But that’s why Frank liked the dream so much. It was an ordinary, mundane day, and they were doing ordinary, mundane things like normal people. Like a regular couple, if Frank were to be honest. Banality was underappreciated. Frank cherished the simple things in his former life. It was the simple things that he missed the most.

The third dream came to him by accident (if dreams could be classified as ‘accidents’). It was a snapshot of real life that had wound its way into his unconscious. One day, he’d been walking in midtown when he saw Karen and Murdock in the window of a bistro near their office. It was after hours and the two of them were winding down. (Idly, Frank had wondered where Nelson was.) They’d both been laughing. Frank had seen Karen laughing before, but not the altar boy. This was no smirk or soft chuckle, but a hearty laugh, one that had made Murdock’s shoulders move and his head tip back from the action. Frank catalogued the scene in his mind, even as he didn’t break his step. He was across the street, certain that Karen hadn’t seen him. He couldn’t be so sure about Red. He remembered Red telling him once that he’d be able to recognize Frank’s heartbeat anywhere. That was probably true, Frank reasoned. But Red would have to be purposely _listening_ for his heartbeat to know that Frank was there.

The image had been seared in Frank’s mind because he’d never seen or heard Red laugh so openly and freely before. He wondered what it would take for Red to laugh like that in his presence, if he could make Red laugh at all. A damn miracle, probably. He began to think about it so much that it invaded his dreams. Only in his dream, he was the one sitting opposite Red in the bistro making Red laugh.

There were other dreams: lounging on the sofa while reading books, Frank preparing a meal for them, Murdock training on his rooftop while Frank watched with a cup of coffee. It took Frank a long while to realize what the dreams meant, and when he did, he simply accepted them. He wasn’t going to do anything about his epiphany. Red wouldn’t welcome those sorts of advances. They barely tolerated each other on the best of days. The handful of team-ups that they’d attempted had been reluctant, awkward affairs. Anyway, romantic relationships were no longer part of Frank’s vocabulary. You couldn’t tie yourself down in his business. Caring about someone was just putting that person on the fast track to getting hurt, physically and emotionally. Frank didn’t need that kind of baggage in his life. And Red? He had plenty of baggage of his own.

The dreams were what they were. Frank stopped resenting them. In fact, he started to look forward to them. Sleep before had been fitful and nightmare-fueled, filled with images of his family getting murdered over and over again, and Frank being powerless to stop it. Even after Frank had found his vengeance, sleep remained elusive and wasn’t as restful as it should’ve been. Now his unconscious had constructed a fantasy Murdock for him, one he could care for and who cared for him in return. He always dreamed about Murdock, not Red, reinforcing the notion that he didn’t really know who Matthew Murdock was. Nearly all his interactions with Murdock had been through his alter ego, Daredevil. It was easy to think of them as two separate people, and these dreams were the closest he would ever get to the real thing. 

Until the day he got shot.

* * *

Matt heard the message as though it were on a loop. Except he knew that it wasn’t a loop. A loop would’ve been a message that sounded exactly the same, repeated with the same mannerisms, the same pauses, the same inflections in language and tone and voice. No, this was Frank speaking to him, repeating the same message over and over, sometimes slower, sometimes more labored, always in pain. 

Matt followed the voice and its specific directions. Ever the marine, Frank was bleeding out and still giving him precise instructions. Matt knew that things must be bad if Frank was talking to him directly, hoping that he was within Matt’s range. Matt would be the last resort. It meant that Frank was too badly wounded to tend to himself, and that there was nobody else he could reach. 

Matt found Frank exactly where Frank had said he would be. Frank was delirious by then. Matt could tell that the other man would pass out soon. He ascertained how badly Frank was wounded (it was bad) and weighed his options. Frank needed professional medical help. Harlem was nearest.

* * *

“What the fuck, Matt?” 

“Help me get him inside before someone sees us.” 

Frank was vaguely aware of being half-dragged, half-carried. Then, he was lying down somewhere soft. He couldn’t feel the pain anymore, which was surely a bad sign. Two voices talking above him. Arguing. Red was one. Frank didn’t know the other. It was a female voice. She sounded pissed. Frank couldn’t blame her. 

Hands were on him; clothes were being removed or cut away. The pain in his side flared sharp and bright. He welcomed it. Pain was better than numbness. He tried to open his eyes. The light was too bright. It was covered as Red’s face came into view. Frank saw the outline of the horns. 

“Frank,” Murdock said. “Hang in there.” 

Frank couldn’t speak. He wanted to tell Red that he was glad that Red was there. If this was the end for him, there was no better person to send him off than the Devil.

* * *

This was his favorite dream. It felt a little different. Frank couldn’t put his finger on _why_ , but it didn’t matter. The essence of the dream was still the same. He was lying in bed. He’d just woken up. It was Sunday morning. He felt that heavy, drowsy feeling that told him he wasn’t quite awake yet. He needed coffee for that. Sunlight streamed into the room, though it was a more muted than usual. He heard steps. He looked to his right, which took more effort than it should have. It didn’t matter. The action was rewarded by the sight of Murdock.

“Hey you,” Frank said, his voice barely above a whisper. (His throat was _so dry_.) He reached out with his right hand, palm face up on the bed. He thought he saw a flicker of hesitation on Murdock’s face, but then Murdock’s hand was sliding into his own with a firm, reassuring grip. 

Frank smiled, inordinately relieved to see Murdock. Maybe he hadn’t died after all. You didn’t dream when you were dead . . . right? 

“What? No coffee?” he teased.

Another flicker across Matt’s face. Puzzlement, perhaps? This dream was a little strange, not playing according to Frank’s usual script. Those gunshots must’ve messed him up good. 

“We’ll save the coffee for later.” 

At least, Murdock still sounded the same.

“Okay,” Frank agreed, still gripping Murdock’s hand. For some reason, it felt important to hold his hand. “Feel so tired,” he murmured. “Everything’s so heavy.” 

“That’s probably the drugs,” Murdock told him, his voice gentle and soft in a way that Frank had never heard in his dreams before. _It was nice_ , Frank thought. Nice development. He filed that voice away for future dreams. 

“Get some sleep, Frank,” Matt was saying. “It’ll do you good.” 

“You’ll be here?” Frank asked, eyelids already closing. 

“I’ll be here,” Matt replied.

* * *

Matt sat beside Frank’s bed (technically, it was Matt’s bed) for a while longer, holding Frank’s hand. When he was certain of the sound, deep, even breathing from the other man, he gently extricated himself from Frank’s grip. Then he checked the IV unit that Claire had set up next to Frank’s bed. Matt hadn’t expected Frank to wake up so soon. Claire had given him a sedative, which was supposed to keep Frank under for another six to eight hours. Claire had mentioned the possibility of disorientation as a side effect of the drug when Frank woke up, but she hadn’t said anything about hallucinations. Matt supposed it wasn’t out of the question. Frank had been delirious the night before; he could very well be delirious now.

As Matt looked down at his sleeping patient, he wondered who Frank had seen in his place. Frank’s soft smile and gentle actions, his need for reassurance, were not things Matt associated with The Punisher. Frank had spoken to him with such familiarity and affection. Those words and actions had not been meant for him. Frank had probably been seeing his dead wife. What was her name? Maria. Maria Castle.

Still, Matt had gone along with the charade, as awkward as it had made him feel. It was the best way to keep Frank calm, to allow his body to get the rest it needed. To heal. When Frank finally came to his senses, he wouldn’t be pleased to find out that he was in Matt’s care, and that he was sleeping in Matt’s bed. Both those facts would send Frank out the door before he could properly heal. So, if Matt had to lie a little to give Frank the help he needed, Matt thought God would understand.

* * *

These dreams were stranger, Frank thought. But since Matt was still a fixture in them, he wasn’t bothered. He was always lying in bed in his dreams. He felt weak, sapped of energy, with a dull pain throbbing in his side and another in his leg. Matt was the sole constant, bringing with him trays of food or something to drink, helping Frank to the bathroom when he needed to use it. If Frank didn’t know any better, he’d say that he was injured and that Matt was caring for him, but that couldn’t be right. They weren’t Daredevil or The Punisher in his dreams. They were just Matthew Murdock and Frank Castle. Ordinary civilians living ordinary lives. A situation wouldn’t arise where he’d get injured, unless he’d done something careless like fallen off a ladder while he’d been fixing the roof. (It wasn’t out of the question. It’d happened once before with Maria and the kids during Halloween.) However strange the dream, Frank zeroed in on its core idea – that Matt was _caring_ for him. In sickness or in health. That’s how it was supposed to go, even if they weren’t married. 

_Marriage_. Frank smiled to himself. That would be a next-level dream.

The room he was staying in was different too. It wasn’t the suburban house that normally featured in his dreams. It felt more . . . personal. Intimate. More uniquely Matt’s place. If anything, it felt like the bedroom in Matt’s own apartment. Frank had been to Matt’s place only once, and Matt had been reluctant to let him inside. They’d been working together at the time, on a case that tied back to the Gnucci crime family. There was some evidence that Matt had secured through legal channels, documents and photographs that Frank insisted on looking at. Matt had the original files; they had yet to be translated into Braille.

They’d come in through the roof access door, Frank making some barbed comment about how vigilante superheroes needed easy escape routes (this was before the dreams had started). Matt hadn’t taken the bait, just made a terse offer of Frank helping himself to some water while he went and got the evidence. Standing in the living area, Frank had done a quick survey of the apartment, the garish neon light of the billboard outside illuminating the space. He’d watched as Murdock had disappeared into the darkened bedroom, the only area that hadn’t been lit up by the billboard. He’d taken note of the Japanese-style sliding doors and the partially unmade bed. Although the room was darker by comparison, a small, high window on the far side let in a stream of moonlight.

His new dream had incorporated the general layout of that room, and Frank’s surprisingly active imagination had filled in the rest. He liked how much this room felt like it was Matt’s, as if he could possibly know Murdock that well. There were details that Frank would never have consciously thought of, yet here they were: Murdock’s suits in the closet with their neat Braille labels (Frank had watched as Matt had chosen a suit for a dinner that he’d had to attend, asking Frank if he’d be okay for the evening); the alarm clock on the bedside table that read out the time because, of course, Matt couldn’t see the display; the slide of the silk sheets on the bed that had positively shocked Frank. Why would Murdock splurge on silk bedsheets? He wasn’t the type to care about luxury.

The more Frank thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that Matt’s heightened senses were even _more_ heightened than he’d given them credit for. That, and the fact that Frank had focused most on Matt’s keen hearing. If the guy could hear everything that happened around him for ten square blocks, then what was his sense of _touch_ like? Or _taste_? Frank had never seriously considered those things before, but now the silk bedsheets were making him wonder. Plain old cotton must’ve been too abrasive for Murdock, abrasive enough that he found it difficult to sleep. How the hell did he even sleep? 

In hindsight, it was the detail about the silk bedsheets that should’ve given everything away.

* * *

Frank Castle had been in Matt’s care for nearly a week. He was steadily improving, though still somewhat weak. He’d taken three gunshots from the Kitchen Irish, one in the calf (bullet went clean through the muscle) and two in the side. Claire wasn’t able to stop by every day to check on him, but she was able to drop by often enough. She’d removed the IV after the third day. It helped that Frank’s appetite was strong. Matt had fed him at first, but as soon as Frank had been able to sit up in bed, he’d also begun to eat and drink on his own. Mobility was still a problem, which was why Matt helped Frank to the bathroom whenever Frank needed to use it, although Frank insisted on washing himself once he was able. Matt knew that he had a pair of crutches somewhere. He’d dig them out so that when Frank was strong enough, he’d be able to get around on his own.

At first, Matt had thought that having Frank Castle around would be a monumental inconvenience. Maybe looking after the Punisher while he was injured was some kind of special penance that God had devised just for him. The idea was cruel and unusual enough. But since that first night, when Frank had woken up unexpectedly despite the sedative and had mistaken Matt for someone else, he hadn’t been any trouble at all. In fact, he’d been the opposite. Frank Castle was . . . pleasant. Agreeable. Good company. These were words that Matt didn’t associate with Castle. Certainly, words he didn’t associate in Castle’s interactions with _him_. Frank smiled a lot, gave Matt soft looks and gentle touches. They didn’t spend much time talking, not beyond what was necessary, but their short conversations were easy and comfortable. Mundane, even. Neither of them brought up their vigilante activities. That was a conscious decision on Matt’s part, and he guessed that it was probably the same for Frank. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to start bickering and fighting now. Instead, Matt was thankful for the peace.

Except . . . 

Except Matt remained troubled by Frank’s behavior. He could’ve attributed it to Frank’s general weakness, but there seemed to be something else at work, something that Matt hadn’t been able to figure out. Frank’s disorientation had passed immediately, but he continued to treat Matt as though Matt were someone else. It worried him. Was Frank hallucinating? Was this a side effect of the drugs that Claire was giving him? It didn’t seem likely. Claire was giving him high-level painkillers, not anything that would mess with his head. Had Frank sustained a more serious head injury that neither he nor Claire were aware of? Because the way Frank Castle was treating him wasn’t . . . normal. 

As Frank reached the one-week mark in his care, Matt brought up his concerns with Claire when she stopped by on Sunday afternoon. 

“How’s he doing?” Matt asked her after the check-up, when they were out in the dining area where Frank couldn’t hear them.

“Good,” Claire said. “He’s healing up nicely.” She paused and gave Matt a sly look. “Are you that eager to get rid of him? I thought he was being a good patient, better than you.” 

Matt returned her sly look with one of exasperation. “It’s not that,” he said, conveniently side-stepping the observation that Frank _was_ a good patient. He sighed, and the sound smacked too much of resignation. It got Claire’s attention. “I can’t explain it,” Matt began, before stopping again. “Does he seem . . . different to you?”

“I don’t know Frank Castle, other than what I’ve seen on the news,” Claire admitted. “And we both know that there’s more to him than that. I haven’t got any basis to judge if he’s different or not.” She studied Matt before speaking again. “Why? Does he seem different to you?” 

“Yeah,” Matt answered without hesitation. “Very different.” He shook his head. “When Frank first woke up, I thought he might be disoriented, even a bit delirious or groggy from the sedative. He mistook me for someone else, someone he cared about. Maybe even his dead wife. But the thing is . . .” Matt hesitated. “It’s been a week and his attitude hasn’t changed. He’s not disorientated and I don’t think he’s hallucinating . . . but I still think _he_ thinks that I’m somebody else.”

Matt may not have been able to see the expression on Claire’s face, but he could feel her skepticism. It came across in her body language and the tilt in her head, in the silence that spoke volumes between them. 

“Let me get this straight,” Claire said slowly. “You think that Frank Castle thinks you’re someone else because . . . he’s being nice to you?” 

“Don’t say it like that,” Matt told her.

“That’s how you said it,” Claire pointed out, but since she didn’t want to get into an argument with Matt, she changed tactics. “Has he actually called you by another name, even accidentally? Then, you’d know for sure that he thinks you’re someone else.” 

“No,” Matt said, realizing that Claire was right. In their time together, Frank had never called him by a different name. In fact, Frank hadn’t called Matt by _his_ name either. Not Matt. Not Murdock. Not even Red. Wasn’t that a little strange, too?

“There you go,” Claire said, as though the mystery were solved. “Maybe this is Castle’s way of saying that he’s thankful that you’re looking after him. Not every patient has to be a stubborn asshole,” Claire added, her last statement clearly intended for Matt. 

“That’s just it, Claire,” Matt replied. “Frank Castle _is_ a stubborn asshole.”

* * *

While Claire didn’t exactly give Frank a clean bill of health, she did say that the former marine could leave after a few more days. 

“Ideally, it would be great if you could convince him to stay for another week,” she said. “But if he wants to take off by, say, Thursday, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be able to.” 

“Okay,” Matt agreed. “Another week. Does this mean this is your last visit?” 

“Looks like it,” Claire admitted. “There’s nothing more I can do for him. Unless something happens,” she added. “Then, give me a call.”

Truth be told, Frank’s presence in his home wasn’t as disruptive as Matt had thought it would be. He’d spent the past week working from home, only going to court when absolutely necessary. Most of his client meetings he did over the phone. If he’d still been working with Foggy and Karen, things would’ve been much harder to explain. But they’d gone their separate ways and Matt didn’t have to worry about his former friends popping into his life unexpectedly. He felt a pang of guilt that he hadn’t told Karen about Frank’s condition, but it passed. He didn’t understand what their relationship was, other than they had one. He decided that he’d let Frank tell Karen what happened, if Frank wanted to do that. It was his business, after all.

The first four days of Frank’s stay, Matt hadn’t gone on patrol. After that, he’d cut his patrol hours in half, only going out after having dinner with Frank, and making sure that Frank was settled and comfortable before he left. It was a testament to how out of it Frank had been that he didn’t rouse at Matt’s late-night/early morning comings and goings. But now that Frank was doing better, Matt was sure that he’d be able to go on his regular patrol this week. Perhaps the only major disruption to Matt’s routine was that he missed his own bed. He’d been crashing on his couch, and while it was comfortable enough (contrary to its appearance), he still missed his own bed. 

“Frank,” Matt said, entering the bedroom later than afternoon. Frank was sitting up, alert and waiting for him. “Brought something for you.” He leaned the pair of crutches against the bed, saying, “You must be bored as hell.” 

In response, Frank patted the small stack of library books on top of the bedside table that Matt had borrowed for him. “Nah,” he said. Matt could hear the smile in his voice. “You got me some good company. The classics never get old.”

Matt sat down in the chair that he’d placed beside the bed. “When you said ‘classics,’” he replied. “I didn’t think you meant it so literally.” 

“You got somethin’ against Mark Twain? Herman Melville?” Frank said, with mock indignation. 

“Nope,” Matt answered, automatically holding up his hands in surrender. “The classics never go out of style,” he agreed. “Still,” he said, tapping the crutches. “You must be a little bored being stuck in bed all day. It’d be good to walk around, get some circulation back in your legs. If you’re feeling up to it,” he added. 

“Doctor’s orders? Or are you tryin’ to get rid of me?” Frank teased.

“That’s what Claire said,” Matt muttered, even as Frank’s gentle teasing once again took him by surprise. “No, of course not,” he said, in a louder voice. He leaned forward, noting how Frank instinctively mimicked the action, although there was no need. It was almost as if he wanted to be closer to Matt. But why? 

“Claire says you’re doing well,” Matt told him. “Really well. Unless something goes wrong, today was her last visit. It would be good, though, if you could stay here another week.” 

“A week?” Frank echoed, sounding a bit confused. “Then, we can go home?” 

_We._

Matt filed away the unusual pronoun usage. “Yes,” he confirmed. “ _You_ can go home,” he said, not knowing where Frank Castle called ‘home’ these days.

“Because you’re not coming with me?” The teasing lilt was back in Frank’s voice. 

Matt ran his tongue along his bottom lip, considering. _Has he called you by another name, even accidentally? Then, you’d know for sure . . ._

“Frank,” Matt said slowly. “This is going to sound a little strange, but I need you to answer truthfully.” 

Frank’s demeanor shifted, his attention focused solely on Matt. It was the sniper’s gaze. “What is it?” he asked. 

“Who am I?” 

The sudden tension broke. Frank chuckled. “Is that a trick question?” he teased again. 

“Humor me,” Matt insisted. 

“You’re Matt,” Frank said simply. 

Matt exhaled loudly. “That’s right,” he replied. _And wrong_. Frank never called him by his given name; he was always ‘Red.’

“What is it?” Frank asked again, a note of concern in his voice. “I feel like I failed some kind of test.” 

“No.” Matt was shaking his head, before the word was even out of his mouth. “Yes and no,” he backtracked. “I’ve never heard you call me ‘Matt’ before. Murdock, but not Matt. It surprised me.” 

“I wondered about that too,” Frank was saying. “In the beginning, when the dreams first started. I didn’t know what to call you either. ‘Red’ didn’t feel right anymore. But Matt was too familiar, Murdock too formal. It was a problem.” 

“What did you settle on?” 

“Murdock. But the way these dreams are goin’ now . . .” Frank trailed off with a shrug. “I guess Matt is okay, yeah?” 

“Dreams?” Matt repeated, puzzled. What did Frank _mean_? “Are you saying that you _dream_ about me?”

Frank’s laugh startled him. It was deep. And genuine. 

“All the time,” Frank confirmed. “I dream about you all the time.” 

Before Matt could even begin to process what that implied, Frank was speaking again. 

“But I gotta say, this is the strangest dream. When it started, I thought it was the ‘Lazy Sunday Morning’ dream. That one’s my favorite, by the way,” he added. “But this dream?” Frank shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Being looked after by you while I’m sick –”

“Injured,” Matt corrected, unthinkingly. 

“– I didn’t think I had that kink in me.” 

_Kink?_

What?

“And now the fact that we’re sittin’ here talkin’ about my dreams _while_ I’m dreaming?” Frank shook his head again. “That’s some psychoanalysis bullshit right there.” 

“Frank,” Matt said forcefully, still trying (and failing) to grasp what was going on. “This isn’t a dream.” 

Another deep, carefree laugh. Another moment in which Matt was taken aback. 

“’Course this is a dream,” Frank said, amused. “There ain’t nothin’ else this could be.”

“Frank, listen to me,” Matt said. “This _isn’t_ a dream. Don’t you remember getting shot? Several times? By the Kitchen Irish? You called me for help, some S.O.S. that you repeated on a loop, so that I could find you. I brought you to my friend, Claire. She’s a nurse. She’s the one who’s been checking up on you.”

Matt sensed the change in Frank as it was happening: the stiffening of his shoulders, the sudden tension that shot through his body, the beating of his heart that had sped up for a moment before returning to its steady rhythm just as quickly. Matt had finally managed to get through to him.

“’Course I remember, Red,” Frank said, in a tone that Matt associated with the ‘old’ Frank. It was a relief to hear it, but it was also disappointing somehow. Matt still didn’t understand what Frank had meant by his ‘dreams.’ Why would Frank be dreaming of him at all? But that was a mystery to solve at another time. For now, Matt stood up. 

“I need to go to the supermarket,” Matt explained. “The cupboards are a little bare. Is there anything you want for dinner? I could always get take out,” he added. “In case you’re tired of my cooking.” 

“One day, Red,” Frank said, sounding more and more like himself. “I’m the one who’s goin’ to be doin’ the cooking.” 

Matt chuckled as he headed for the doorway. “I’ll hold you to that, Frank,” he replied.

Later, Matt would wonder when he’d be able to hold Frank to that statement because he wasn’t all that surprised to discover that Frank was gone when he returned from the supermarket. Maybe Matt was the one who’d dreamed the whole thing, except for the incontrovertible proof of Frank’s presence everywhere: his scent permeated Matt’s bedroom, was soaked into his bedsheets; in the fact that Frank had had the good sense to take Matt’s crutches with him when he left; in the two sets of dirty dishes in Matt’s kitchen sink that he had yet to wash. He also had Frank’s guns and the Kevlar in his closet where he kept his own gear. 

Matt sighed. 

There had been a time in the very recent past when he would’ve welcomed Frank’s disappearance, but now all Matt felt was concern.

* * *

Frank waited a good ten minutes after Murdock left before he started to move. It was ten minutes too long since he had to stew over his own stupidity. A dream? A _fucking dream_? He’d been shot, not cracked his skull. How could he have been so fucking stupid? And now Murdock _knew_ about his dreams. Red probably didn’t understand what the dreams were about, but that was beside the point. Frank had never planned on telling Red about his dreams, about _confessing_. He certainly hadn’t planned on _this_. Fuck.

He was thankful for the crutches that Red had left behind. Frank needed them. His mobility was limited, but he pushed through whatever pain and discomfort he felt. This was nothing compared to what else he’d been through. He had to borrow some of Red’s clothes. He’d been wearing Red’s pjs all week, but now he found that Red’s jeans were (unsurprisingly) a tight fit. He left the fly and top button undone, covering it up with a loose sweatshirt. Thankfully, his boots were by the bed. He borrowed a pair of Red’s socks. Red had left Frank’s wallet on the bedside table as well, so Frank would have enough money for a cab. A cab was the only way he’d be able to get home. 

Red’s building was a walk-up, and Frank felt every flight of stairs as he struggled to make it down to the street. Once there, he collapsed into the first cab that came by. 

“You don’t look so great, buddy,” the cab driver helpfully told him.

Frank’s glare shut the driver up, and then Frank gave the man his address. Normally, he would’ve been dropped off a block away from his building for the sake of security, but this time he had the cab driver drop him off practically on the building’s front doorstep. He thought he might have to break into his own apartment, but Red had managed to find Frank’s house key before he’d gotten rid of Frank’s clothes (too bloody and ripped to be salvageable). He’d placed the key in Frank’s wallet. 

Frank didn’t remember much after that. He barely made it to his own ratty sofa before he collapsed.

* * *

There was somebody else in the room with him. Frank reached for the weapon that would normally be at his side, except that it wasn’t there. He’d left Murdock’s place defenseless, and he hadn’t rearmed when he’d arrived. His reflexes were slow. Sluggish. Frank turned, trying to get a look at the intruder. Pain flared in his side. For a moment, he thought that Murdock might’ve followed him (it was possible, right?). He braced himself for the confrontation. Running away wasn’t his style (neither was panicking), but he didn’t think he’d have to face Murdock so soon either. 

Through the haze, a face came into view. Pale. Curly brown hair. A somewhat shaggy, but still fairly well-kept beard. 

“Lieberman?” Frank croaked. 

David sat back. He was crouched on the floor next to the sofa. 

“I was worried about you, Frank,” Lieberman said, his eyes crinkling as if to reinforce his statement. “Been trying to reach you for a few days now.” He stood up. 

Frank tried to sit up as well. It was a short-lived effort. Instead, he arranged himself more comfortably on the sofa, his back now flat against the sofa’s cushions. 

“Why?” he asked with a slight wince. “Somethin’ happen? You in trouble?”

“Why does it always have to be about me, Frank?” David said with a sigh. “Can’t I be worried about _you_?” 

“What for?” 

“Your run-in with the Kitchen Irish made the news,” David explained. “Not that you were identified by name, but it was pretty obvious who was involved in that shootout. Who else would be pig-headed enough to take the Kitchen Irish on their own?” 

_The Devil_ , Frank briefly thought, but didn’t say aloud.

“The news report said you’d been shot up bad, so I wanted to check in on you,” David was saying. “You haven’t been answering your phone. I’ve passed by a couple of times, but there was no one home. Checked the hospitals too, but you didn’t turn up there. Or the morgue,” he added. 

“How’d you get in here, anyway?” 

“The door was unlocked.” 

_Fuck_.

The look on Lieberman’s face said, _Yeah, exactly. Aren’t you glad I stopped by?_

“Since you’re here, make yourself useful,” Frank said. “Help me get to the bed, yeah?” 

David helped Frank up, slinging one of Frank’s arms around his shoulders while he held Frank around the waist for support. “Where you been?” he asked, as they made their slow walk to the bedroom. “Somebody’s obviously patched you up.” 

“Stayin’ with a friend,” Frank said, before he could think better of it. 

“Curt?” 

When Frank didn’t reply, David’s eyebrows nearly rose to his hairline, although Frank couldn’t see his reaction. “Wait,” David said, momentarily stunned. “Are you saying that you have _other_ friends beyond me and Curt?”

Frank grumbled. He didn’t have the energy for this. 

“Who’s this friend?” David pressed. 

“Can it,” Frank barked back. 

David shut up, but he couldn’t help the grin that crossed his face. Frank Castle had a mystery friend, someone he was close enough to that he could go to that person when he was in serious trouble. (David had no doubt that Frank had been in _serious trouble_ against the Irish.) It was probably someone from the marine corps. Weren’t they all brothers in the marines? Still, as David helped Castle climb into bed, he couldn’t help but wonder who this person was and why Frank had left his (her?) care before he was better healed. Because Frank Castle sure as hell looked like he could do more healing. Had something gone wrong? 

“You need anything?” David asked him. “Hungry? Thirsty?” 

“Sleep,” Frank muttered. “I need sleep.”

* * *

“Running away?” a voice said, its inflection turning the words into a question. “I didn’t think that was in the Punisher’s vocabulary.” 

Frank’s eyes fluttered open. A face came into view and it didn’t belong to David Lieberman. “Ha!” he said. “’m not gonna fall for that a second time.” 

“Fall for what, Frank?” Murdock questioned. He sat back in the chair that he’d placed next to Frank’s bed, both hands resting on his cane. “Do you think this is another dream?” 

“That,” Frank said, wagging a finger at him. “That’s what I mean. ‘m not gonna fall for that again.” 

“Is this a dream or not?” 

“Don’t matter.” 

“No?” 

“Nope.” Frank shook his head, sitting up slowly as he did so. “What’d you do, Red? Follow me here? Used yer ninja skills and super hearing?” 

Matt smiled. “Nothing so dramatic,” he replied. He leaned forward a little conspiratorially. “I’m gonna let you in on a secret, Frank.” 

“Yeah? What’s that?” 

“This _is_ a dream.”

Frank laughed, long and hard. He was still smiling when he caught his breath. “The Devil has a sense of humor,” he finally said. 

“Only God has a better one,” Matt agreed. He returned Frank’s smile, before growing serious. “Why’d you do it, Frank? Why’d you run away? You’re not a coward.” 

Frank shrugged, the question and the statement wiping away his good mood. “Didn’t think you’d come here to pick a fight, Red.” 

“I never left,” Matt said. “I’m your unconscious. Why’d you run away?” 

Frank looked at him suspiciously. “What is this?” he asked. “Therapy? I already got Curt for that.” 

It was Matt’s turn to shrug. “Confession, then,” he suggested, his devil’s smile slicing a little sharper. “Why’d you run away?” 

Frank was silent for a long time. Matt waited him out. 

“I panicked, alright?” 

Matt looked like he was about to interrupt, but Frank didn’t give him a chance.

“It was a mess,” he explained. “Everything was a mess. Injured or not, I couldn’t believe I’d been so fucking stupid. I wasn’t ready to face you. I knew you’d have a lot of questions, and I just couldn’t deal with that shit, okay? Guess I’m a coward after all.” 

“You’re not a coward, Frank,” Matt said with a sigh. “And everybody panics. Even the big, bad Punisher.” 

“That’s some pep talk, Red.” 

“What pep talk? Who’s Red?” 

Frank turned, the pain in his side sharp and bright. Wait. Was he sleeping? He opened his eyes. Again. David Lieberman was sitting beside the bed, a tray in his lap. 

“I didn’t know you were the type to talk in your sleep, Frank,” Lieberman commented. “You didn’t before,” he added, referring to their time together in Lieberman’s makeshift basement bunker. 

“’m not,” Frank mumbled. Fuck. First Red, now Lieberman. Frank sat up slowly, a sense of déjà vu coming over him. “How long was I out?” 

“Almost eight hours.” 

Fuck. 

“Ain’t your family gonna be looking for you?” 

“Unlike some people,” David said, a tad reproachfully. “I call the ones who care about me and let them know how I’m doing.”

“Uh-huh,” Frank said, too stubborn to take the bait. “Is that your way of inviting yerself to sleep over?” 

Frank knew that it was late. When he’d left Murdock’s, it’d been almost 4:00pm. If he’d been asleep for nearly eight hours that meant it was probably past midnight. 

“Well, I was thinking of just crashing on your couch,” David admitted. “Here,” he said, handing the tray over. “It’s just chicken noodle soup and a slice of buttered toast. There wasn’t much to work with,” he added, sounding apologetic. 

“‘m surprised you didn’t open a can of beans and call it a day,” Frank said, accepting the tray. 

“I was tempted,” David told him. 

Frank grinned, despite himself. “Thanks,” he said quietly, picking up the spoon. A midnight snack from David Lieberman. Why not? Red and his nurse friend . . . what was her name? Claire? . . . were proof that stranger things had happened. Not to mention those godamned _dreams_.

Frank ate in silence. He’d expected Lieberman to fill up that silence – he was the chatty sort – but he didn’t. It was probably proof of how poorly Frank looked, of how down his spirits were that David Lieberman wasn’t even attempting to cheer him up or to try and get information out of him. 

“Is it okay if I crash on your couch?” Lieberman said, when Frank was nearly done with his soup. “It is pretty late.”

“Yeah,” Frank replied. “There are spare blankets in the closet over there,” he said, pointing to the closet behind Lieberman. “Take one of the pillows, too,” he added. 

“Thanks, man. You done with that?” David gestured at the tray. 

“Yeah,” Frank said, passing the tray back to Lieberman. 

Lieberman stood up, tray in hand. He looked like he was deciding whether or not to say something. “Listen,” he finally said. “I don’t know what happened with that mystery friend of yours – because it’s clear that something _did_ happen, even if you don’t wanna tell me about it. But whatever it was, it’s probably not as bad as you think. It usually isn’t, y’know?” 

“I fucked up,” Frank said flatly, more to himself than to Lieberman. 

David knew when to call it quits. He just nodded and took the tray away.

* * *

Frank spent that second week recuperating in his own home. Instead of Claire, it was Lieberman who dropped by after work every couple of days, bringing with him groceries. On the weekend, he brought a casserole. 

“From Sarah,” he explained. 

“She knows you’ve been coming to see me?” 

“I don’t lie to my wife.” 

“Tell her thanks.” 

“You can thank her by eating it.” 

“I’ll _eat_ it.”

They were sitting at Frank’s little kitchen table. Frank felt like he and Lieberman had switched places. Now he was the one constantly wearing a bathrobe with barely any desire to change his pajamas. It was only the fact that his wounds needed regular care and cleaning that got Frank out of bed. He wouldn’t allow them to fester. 

“You look like you’re doing a lot better,” Lieberman said, attempting small talk. 

Frank leveled him with a glare that Lieberman didn’t deserve. He knew that he looked like shit. 

“I mean,” Lieberman tried again. “You’re healing. Physically. Not that you . . .” he sort of gestured aimlessly at Frank’s appearance. 

_Yeah, yeah_ , Frank thought. Fair enough. 

“You’re moving around a lot better.”

That was true. Frank had been on his crutches when Lieberman had arrived. (The shit had made a copy of Frank’s key and now let himself in as he pleased.) He could probably get around without the crutches, but his limp would be pronounced. He thought he’d be able to stop using the crutches in under a week. 

“I suppose when you’re all healed up, you’ll be after the Kitchen Irish again,” David said, doing an admirable job of keeping the conversation going single-handedly. 

Frank sort of grunted. 

David drummed his fingers on the table, looking at the peeling paint on the walls of the little kitchen. “There’s no rush, y’know,” he said. ‘About the Irish, I mean. They’re just going to be there. You should heal up properly before you try taking them on again, especially since you do the Lone Wolf thing.”

The Lone Wolf comment got Frank’s attention. “What’re you saying, Lieberman? You sayin’ that I can’t handle the Irish on my own?” 

“No, no,” Lieberman quickly backtracked. “Nothing like that.” He hesitated. “But sometimes operations are too big to do on your own. You don’t need a partner 24/7, but back up would be good from time to time. Even in the marines, you were part of a unit. You weren’t out there by yourself.” 

“I’m not in the marines anymore,” Frank reminded him. “And I’m not dragging Curt into my messes. I didn’t want him involved with Bill either, but Russo was different. Curt was already involved.” 

“I’m not saying you should get Curt involved,” David replied, exasperated. “He sells insurance now, for god’s sake. I wish _you’d_ do something as banal.” 

Frank almost grinned. Almost.

“But you don’t have to be the Lone Wolf either,” David went on. “New York City has other vigilantes. They’re not exactly like you, but . . .” he trailed off. “What about Daredevil?” he asked outright. “You two have made the headlines a few times. The media had an absolute field day.” 

Frank snorted. “Yeah, old Hornhead. Those team ups were more trouble than they were worth.” 

“But they _worked_ ,” David countered. 

“More trouble than they were worth,” Frank repeated slowly, purposefully enunciating each word. He threw in a glare for good measure.

David sighed in defeat. “Stubborn bastard,” he muttered as he stood. “Eat the casserole,” he said irritably. “And get out of those pajamas.” 

“Yes, mom.” 

“I’ll be back next weekend to pick up the Pyrex container,” David added. 

“See you, Lieberman,” Frank said, his expression softening. “And thanks.”

* * *

Frank spent the third week of his recuperation regaining his strength and mobility. He dragged himself out of bed to work out. Then he’d drag himself down to the local grocer’s to buy food and other supplies. Towards the end of the week, he dumped the crutches. (Not literally. He planned to return them to Murdock . . . eventually.) Physically, he could see the daily improvement. Soon, he’d go back to reconnaissance, figure out another way to approach the Irish. Lieberman had been right about one thing. The Irish weren’t going anywhere, and he’d need to be at full strength (or near enough to it) before he tried taking them on again.

Mentally . . . well. Frank knew something wasn’t right. Sitting in a diner, aimlessly stirring his cup of black coffee, Frank finally recognized what he was feeling. He was depressed, and had been ever since he’d fled Murdock’s apartment like the coward that he was. The Punisher was depressed. Frank shook his head at the epiphany. 

That’s why he wasn’t surprised anymore when the Devil slid into the seat opposite him. Even a cursory glance told Frank that the Devil, not Matthew Murdock, the people’s lawyer, was sitting in front of him. Murdock was incognito in an old dark green jacket and jeans, a baseball cap over his head, and no cane in sight. As if to reinforce the point, when the waitress stopped by their table with the mandatory coffee pot, Murdock looked straight at her with only his dark glasses masking the fact that he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“What can I get you, sweetie?” the waitress asked. 

“Just coffee for now,” Murdock replied. 

“Sure thing,” she said, pouring him a cup. 

Murdock took this opportunity to remove his baseball cap, running a hand through his dark auburn hair, the red shade bleeding into black. He placed the cap on the seat beside him. 

“Sunglasses indoors, Red?” Frank questioned. “A little hipster, don’t ya think?” 

“Some things I can’t get away with,” Murdock answered smoothly. 

“How come yer incognito today?” 

“Wanted to check out a couple of things.” 

“Daylight reconnaissance?” 

“It’s necessary from time to time." 

It felt surreal to be talking to Murdock like this, as though thinking about the cause of his depression had simply made Murdock materialize in front of him. Frank studied the other man. What was it about Matthew Murdock that had seeped into his unconscious like that and then disappeared just as abruptly? Barring that one dream where he’d been talking in his sleep (and Lieberman had overheard), Frank’s dreams of Murdock had stopped once he’d left Murdock’s apartment. This couldn’t be a dream now, right? Dreams – even daydreams – didn’t work like that.

“This ain’t your neighborhood, Red. Yer a little far from home.” 

“Is this _your_ neighborhood, Frank?” 

Frank neatly evaded the question. “How’d you know I was here?” he asked instead. 

There was a beat, as though Murdock was considering whether to answer the question or call Frank out for his evasion. He did the former.

“I was on my way home when I heard your heartbeat,” he said simply. “Before I knew it, I’d changed direction and was headed here. I figured if you stayed in the same spot by the time I arrived, it was meant to be.” 

“Ha!” Frank said. “Since when was the Devil fatalistic?” 

“I believe in God, Frank,” Murdock reminded him. “Fatalism is part of the deal.” 

Frank wasn’t about to get into a philosophical debate about destiny or divine will. That wasn’t part of his life anymore. 

“And why’d you come here, Red?” Frank went on. “Were you worried about me?”

“Yes,” Murdock said, his honesty taking Frank off guard. “You took off pretty quick, Frank. Not even a ‘thank you’ note for all my troubles.” 

Frank felt inexplicably offended, even if _he_ was the one who had caused offense. “Not worried enough to go after me,” he said. It felt as though the words were being spoken by a stranger and he flushed slightly, aware that Murdock’s keen senses would be able to detect the heat on his face.

“I didn’t think you wanted that,” Murdock said quietly. “It was very clear to me that you _wouldn’t_ want that.” He sat back in the booth, the effect of the extra distance between them also dissipating the tension that had arisen from Frank’s retort. “Claire was hoping that you’d stay another week,” he went on. “But you were out of any real danger. I trusted that you’d be able to get back to your place without killing yourself.” He gestured in Frank’s direction. “And I can see, figuratively speaking,” he added, “that you’re doing a lot better. Not even using crutches anymore.”

“I heal quick,” was Frank’s only response. 

“You’d think,” Murdock said thoughtfully, “that with the beatings our bodies have taken that we’d heal slower.” He drank his coffee quickly, fishing out a few dollars and slipping them under the saucer of his coffee cup. Then, he stood up. 

“That’s it?” Frank said, somewhat surprised. “That’s all you gotta say to me?”

He’d expected questions, possibly a pseudo-interrogation. He’d been prepared to defend himself, even if Murdock was usually the defense lawyer. Frank supposed he should be thankful that Murdock wasn’t bringing up the dreams. He was a piss poor liar, and if Murdock asked the right questions . . . 

“That’s all for now,” Murdock said, a little enigmatically as he put the baseball cap back on. He inclined his head in Frank’s direction. “We’ll see each other again soon.”

Frank didn’t respond, didn’t know what to say. ‘See ya, Red,’ was often his parting line, spoken somewhere between a promise and a taunt. But Murdock’s parting line? Well, that just sounded like a promise, and Frank didn’t know what to make of that. He knew that the Devil kept his word, which meant that he’d find out sooner rather than later.

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs to Marvel and Netflix. No infringement is intended; no profit is being made.


End file.
